


The Fire, the Flood

by Pholo



Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, I mean...of course...who do you think I am, Is Peter sick? Almost assuredly not, Other, Pancakes, Peter lives, Rangian Street Poker, Will I write about it anyway? Absolutely, brief allusions to past domestic abuse (where Juno's concerned)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-02
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:00:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 11,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21627223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pholo/pseuds/Pholo
Summary: “Do you know when I decided to tell you my name?” Peter asks.It’s one of his silent days, and the twitch of Juno’s hand betrays his surprise. He’s pressed against Peter’s back, an arm looped over his chest. He lifts his forehead from the back of Peter’s neck. “Mmn? No…I guess I don’t. When?”Peter holds the hand cupped over his heart. He has to arrange his grip to make room for the pulse oximeter on his finger. “It was when you said you’d never tried eating cologne.”Juno snickers. His breath skims over Peter’s skin, stirring the hairs on the back of his head.“Really?”“Really. It only occurred to me later, as I was writing the note, that I’d been preparing to do so for several hours. And when I looked back to when…”“That was the moment.”“When I knew you were him,” Peter confirms sleepily. He pets the side of Juno’s hand with his thumb. “The person I wanted to share my name with.”
Relationships: Peter Nureyev/Juno Steel
Comments: 146
Kudos: 459





	1. Chapter 1

Peter Nureyev is very good at disappearing. 

This comes hand in hand with the art of distraction. A person cannot simply vanish, after all. They must find a way to force their target to look away from them, or over them, or _through_ them long enough for them to slip away. Over the years Peter has learned to use chaos as a weapon; how to wrap a crowd around him like a cloak; how to kiss a lady, and hold his cheek with one hand as the other searches his coat pocket.

For better or for worse, this trick works for Peter as well as his marks. Sometimes he’ll distract himself from a problem for so long that the problem will simply disappear. It’s a con of his own mind. 

This is how Peter disappears his problems for eight years: He pays his debts to get his pills, but he doesn’t acknowledge what the pills are for. He does his work to pay his debts, and doesn’t acknowledge what the debts are for. He never asks _why_ , only _how_. How does he get more pills? How does he make his next payment? How does he get more work? He distracts with flashy heists. He keeps himself busy. He never connects the dots. 

Then come the gray hairs; the weight loss. 

When Peter can no longer afford to _distract_ , he deflects. Peter’s health problems are only relevant where they affect his work. He’s concerned about his age because he can’t seduce corporate trillionares with gray hair and crow’s feet—because he can’t crack a safe with only a fuzzy recollection of the passcode. To do this kind of work, Peter needs a fit body and a sharp mind. That’s his excuse for the way his palms sweat whenever he sleeps through an alarm, or the stab of fear when his fingers catch the edge of his ribs as he showers. 

He’s only worried about the _work_. 

Peter lives comfortably nestled within this lie for many years—until Buddy Aurinko yanks the blindfold off with two awful, miraculous words:

_Cure Mother._

After that, Peter can no longer deny why he’s scared.


	2. Chapter 2

It’s past midnight on Neptune, the front of the mansion is on fire, and Peter Nureyev is in his element. 

Sure, the fire might have gotten out of hand—but fires so often do, and really, distractions are rarely a problem when they’re _too big_. In this line of work Peter can’t afford to be picky. What matters is the mansion has been evacuated, and not only do he and Juno have a clear shot to Budau’s bedroom, but the panicked crowd will provide a perfect cover as they exit. 

It’s almost too easy. The hallways are long and warren-like, yes—designed to throw off thieves such as themselves. Most people would’ve gotten turned around a long time ago. But Peter Nureyev isn’t most people. He leads Juno to the third floor stairwell with an arrow’s surety. His lungs burn, and his legs feel like putty—but he runs with a spring to his step all the same. He’s on a heist, and Juno’s at his side, and he’s _useful_. He’s _free_. 

For the first time in days, Peter feels more like Peter Nureyev than he does _sick_.

The halls go on. Left, left, right. Peter never wants this to end. He and Juno fly up the stairwell like a pair of swallows on an updraft. Peter dares to peek at Juno; he’s flushed, his coat fanned out behind him like a cape. The grin on his face makes Peter’s heart do a somersault. He turns back to the stairwell so Juno can’t see him blush. The heist: he needs to focus on the heist. The stairs should deposit them right outside Budau’s room. 

Peter has started to get light-headed by the time he and Juno reach the top of the staircase. He pretends he doesn’t stumble as he scales the last few steps. They alight on a blue carpet—the same as the one downstairs. Also the same: the floral wallpaper, the vases positioned at each end of the hall, and a line of doors with extravagant crystal knockers.

Juno plants his hands on his knees and huffs, not afraid to show he’s winded. Sometimes Peter wishes he could afford to flaunt his exhaustion like that. 

“Which…door?” Juno asks. 

Peter opens his mouth to reply and feels a strange tug at the back of his brain. He stands stock-still for a beat, unable to make sense of his own discomfort. By the look on Juno’s face, he and Juno are both equally bewildered by his lack of answer. 

Then Peter understands, and his gut crumples like a wad of aluminum foil:

He’s forgotten. 

It’s an alien sensation, to _forget_. Peter doesn’t _forget_ things—at least not on accident. The thoughts he buries, he buries with his own two hands. His memories never up and disappear on their own accord. That’s something that happens to _other people,_ whose thoughts aren’t meticulously filed by date and subject and situational relevance. 

But now Peter has reached for a file and found empty air. All the hope from a few seconds ago streams out of him like helium from a popped balloon. As the world falls apart Juno says, 

“We could try all of them? Start at the left and work our way down?”

It would work, of course. Peter knows that. But he doesn’t want some other solution—doesn’t want a way _around_ this roadblock. If he can’t pretend the roadblock doesn’t exist, he plans to punch his way to the other side.

He won’t let this thing _win_. 

“Just a moment,” Peter says. What’s that thing people do when they forget something—retrace their steps? He places himself at the entrance of the mansion and journeys back through his mental map. Left, right, third door from the right, right, first floor stairwell, left, left, right, left, second door to the left, right, second floor stairwell…

Second floor stairwell.

Peter clenches his teeth hard enough to hurt. Second floor stairwell, and then what? They don’t have _time_ for this. First floor stairwell, left, left, right, left, second door to the left, right, _second floor stairwell_ …

“Nureyev,” Juno murmurs.

Peter opens his mouth to snap at him—tell him he needs to _focus_ —but then a spark catches at the back of his brain. It’s like Peter’s name shook the directions loose somewhere deep within his subconscious. Peter says the words as they come to him, voice shaky with relief:

“Fourth door to the right.”

Juno nods. Of the two of them, he’s the closest. He rips open the door—and yes, Peter observes from over his shoulder; there’s Budau’s bedroom. He lurches after Juno on wobbly legs, and the heist resumes.   
  
  


A few hours later there’s a knock at Peter’s door.

Peter doesn’t move. It’s less that he doesn’t want to and more that he physically _can’t._ By some miracle of kinetic energy he’d managed to maintain his momentum long enough to reach his bed, but the moment his knuckles brushed the blankets he’d collapses like a sack of bricks. He’s not sure how much time has elapsed between then and now, or whether he was asleep before the knock. He feels…detached. Floaty. Like a dust particle at the whim of a stiff breeze. 

There’s a long pause. Then Juno says, 

“Hey, Nureyev? Can I come in?”

Peter doesn’t know. He’s not sure how much of this exhaustion he can pass off as a post-adrenaline slump. Sure, his research kept him up late last night, but Juno has seen him pull through much worse with only a grimace and an extra cup of coffee. He’s never _crashed_ like this after an all-nighter, much less after a good five hours of sleep…

“That’s okay,” Juno says from outside, taking Peter’s silence for a dismissal. “It’s not anything serious or…whatever. Just…wanted to check up on you and uh. See if you were up for a movie night—”

“You can come in.” 

It comes out as a murmur, and Peter’s not sure whether his voice carries across the room. But Juno must get some sense of his permission, because the door slides open. The hallway light cuts a vibrant stripe across Peter’s floor.

Peter shuffles his position on the bed to get a better view of the doorway. His arm has started to go numb under his head, and he winces at the sudden flush of pins and needles. He sees the glint of a metal pad under Juno’s arm; his gaze travels up to Juno’s face like a climber up a steep cliff. Peter feels his chest grow warm at the bashful look he finds there. 

Juno claps his free hand around the back of his neck and says, 

“Hey.”

Despite the knot in Peter’s stomach, he feels a smile tug at his lips. Juno smiles back. Some of the tension leaks from the room. The hand falls from behind Juno’s head. 

“Rita declared a movie night?” Peter prompts. 

“What? Oh. No, uh.” Juno gestures awkwardly to the pad under his arm. “I thought…maybe you’d want to watch something together. Just you and me?”

And the scene comes together all at once, like a clear picture out of TV static. As though for the first time that night Peter sees Juno, nervous and disheveled at the doorway to Peter’s room; Juno, who up until a few months ago had a very narrow frame of reference for displays of affection; Juno, whose closest friend for the past decade has been a stream fanatic.

The realization blinks to life along the wall of Peter’s brain like a row of fairy lights: 

This is how Juno has been taught to cheer someone up.

Peter looks at Juno—the messy puff of his hair; the shy slant to his smile; the glow of Peter’s bedside lamp, reflected as a tiny sun at the corner of his eye. Peter looks at this wonderful, miraculous person, and he loves him so much he’s sure his heart will burst. 

Past the well of emotion Peter manages, “I’d like that very much, Juno.”

And so they end up on the bed together, curled under Peter’s comforter with their backs to the wall. Peter selects a documentary on a Venusian archeological dig, and as the story progresses, he slumps further and further down against Juno’s side. In what feels like no time at all Peter finds himself tucked along the length of Juno’s torso. He trains his focus on the steady rise and fall of Juno's chest; the echo of his heartbeat against his ear; the weight of his arm around Peter’s shoulders. 

It doesn’t push the worry out of Peter’s mind. He’s still scared. Scared to death, when he lets thoughts of the future linger for more than a few seconds.

But there’s the tickle of the blankets on his neck. He feels the hug of Juno’s body, and a love that fills his chest like a sunrise.

Peter knows he’s not alone.


	3. Chapter 3

Peter doesn’t mean to kiss him. By all accounts he’s decided not to pursue a relationship with Juno. He doesn’t want to make his death any harder for Juno than he already has. 

But then Juno’s toast gets stuck in the toaster one morning, and he looks so utterly ridiculous where he tries to pick it out with a plastic butter knife, and the room is rapidly starting to smell like burned bread—and somehow Peter is leaning down for a kiss.

It lasts for less than a second. The butter knife clatters onto the counter. Cold air hits Peter’s lips as Juno ducks away. 

Shame crashes over Peter. He feels like a bird shot out of the sky. He scrounges around wildly for something to make this better: “Juno, I’m—so sorry, I didn’t mean—it won’t happen again; I don’t know what—”

He’s silenced abruptly by a hot mouth against his own. Peter’s body remembers to kiss back even as his mind whites out with confusion. A palm settles over the curve of his hip. Peter’s own hand finds the back of Juno’s head. 

When they part, Juno has a look of wonder on his face. 

“You surprised me,” he explains. “I want this. I… _really_ want this, Peter. Just give me a warning next time, all right?”

 _Peter._ His first name always makes Peter feel like a child, but this doesn’t come from a place of paternal authority. For the first time Peter’s first name takes on a new context—one outside the realm of his childhood. He nods dumbly. Only Juno can turn him to putty like this. Juno takes the opportunity to peck another kiss onto the corner of his mouth. 

“Now help me with this goddamn toast before I burn down the whole kitchen."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll keep posting chapters over the next day or two. It's all written out; it just needs some edits. 
> 
> Ponyo loves....HAM! Ponyo loves........ _ **COMMENTS**_


	4. Chapter 4

Peter opens the door two nights later and finds Vespa with a bottle of pills. 

“Saw you at dinner,” Vespa says. “Steel did, too.”

Peter had suspected as much. He’s done his best to be coy, but there’s only so much subterfuge one can get away with on a ship full of thieves—and only so much food Peter can make vanish without actually eating it. 

Peter lets his shoulders sag. He accepts the pills. They feel…strange. Heavy. In the way of mindless routines, the old pills are so familiar to Peter now that he’s grown almost totally blind to them. Mundanity has robbed them of their symbolism. These new pills remind him what all the medication actually _means_. 

“Supplements?” he asks dully. 

“Appetite stimulants. The best I can give you with what I know right now.” Vespa’s glare burns like a brand. “It’s time to cut the shit, Ransom. I have your blood. I saw your sodium and potassium levels. You had an appetite when you first got on this ship, and now you don’t.”

Peter clacks his teeth together. His lips feel like they’re sewn together suddenly.

Vespa growls. She snaps her fingers at him. “Come on, Ransom! Specifics! It’s an autoimmune disease, right? Chronic?”

“Cordenoma,” Peter confirms at last, and the word tastes like acid.

“ _Cordenoma._ ” Vespa mutters something vulgar at the floor. “Figured it had to be the adrenal glands. If it were a kidney problem, you would’ve conned your way into a transplant by now. What are you on?”

“Lypsatol.” 

“Yeah, _whelp_. If I could already tell your levels were off _three months ago_ , back when you ate more than a tea leaf a day…” Despite all odds her scowl deepens. “Why the _hell_ didn’t you come to me sooner, Ransom. You need new meds. We can explore your options tomorrow when we’re not a lightyear away from the nearest pharmacy.” 

Peter doesn’t quite nod. The pills click against each other as he pockets them. It’s dangerous to go on like this, and maybe Peter should turn around and lock his bedroom door behind him—but curiosity beats out his usual safeguards. “If you’ve known all along that I was sick, then why did you hire me?”

“I’m dying too, dumbass.”

Something ugly sinks its claws into Peter’s chest. “Yes, and I’d have thought one time bomb would be large enough for a group of this size.”

There’s a flash. Vespa’s plasma knife hums between them, a neon glow that nips at the hallway shadows. 

Silence swallows the hall. Peter and Vespa hover at a standoff. They’re positioned under a ventilation duct, and air catches Vespa’s stray hairs. 

Peter maps the tendons of Vespa’s hands, made more stark with age. The knife dyes her skin a neon pink. Her fingernails are chipped. 

It’s not a real threat. Peter knows this, and Vespa knows he knows. It’s more a gesture at violence to lend credence to her next words: 

“I’m not a time bomb. I’m _sick_.” A pause. “And do you know what that means? What that makes me, as a person?”

Peter proceeds like a soldier on a minefield. “What?”

“Tired. And pissed off. And most of all, _really fucking unlucky_.”

There’s a sound like a snapped twig, and the knife goes dead. Vespa sheathes the blade. In its absence the darkness seems thicker—almost dense enough to touch. Vespa goes on: “Our whole… _talk_. About hiring you? Came down to whether we could trust you not to run off with all our loot. Because you can’t tell shit about a person from their _health_. If you’ve decided the fact you’re sick makes you a bomb—fine. But don’t try to drag me down with you, because I’ve been there and I’m _done_ with that kind of fatalistic bullshit.”

She stops—assesses Peter’s face like maybe his reaction will determine whether she’s finished. Peter keeps his mouth shut. He skritches the nails of his thumb and forefinger together. 

Peter can’t tell whether Vespa likes what she sees. In the end she turns and stalks away down the hall. 

She says to the far wall more so than over her shoulder,

“We'll talk more tomorrow. Expect a visit from me every other night to check on your appetite. And take your goddamn stimulants.”

She turns the corner before Peter can affirm or deny her order. He stares after her for a while—long enough for the air duct to chill the skin on his neck. He turns up his collar but doesn’t make to step out from under the vent. His feet feel like they’re nailed to the ground.

It occurs to him that he’s not even sure why he opened his door. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my mind, Cordenoma is like if you took Addison’s Disease and streeeeetched it out, and the adrenal crisis was just kind of a brick wall at the end of the road. You’d be able to hold off the crisis for some undeterminable amount of time with steroids and such—but eventually the meds wouldn’t be enough.
> 
> Also...*McCoy voice* I'm a comic artist, not a doctor. So please feel free to correct me if something doesn't line up, here!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNING** : This chapter is a sex scene!

Juno nips at his bottom lip, and Peter is a struck match. 

He blooms to life and he’s white-hot and _awake_ , so eager to eat up whatever he can touch. He takes to Juno’s skin like dry kindling. He tastes his mouth and his neck and the dip of his clavicle, and his hands roam under Juno’s shirt to drag along the slope of his back—map out the ridges of his shoulder blades. 

Peter’s teeth scrape along Juno’s skin. Juno moans. The sound goes straight to Peter’s groin. He feels his back arch like a snapped bow as Juno’s mouth finds his throat. 

The two part long enough to undress. Juno’s snickers are muffled where he wrestles his turtleneck up over his head. He emerges with his hair and eyepatch wildly askew. Peter surges back against his body, and the eyepatch falls between them onto the bed. There are hot palms on Peter’s sides. He feels the ghost of his name against his cheek, and then Juno’s smile where their lips lock. Peter’s whole body _glows_. 

It’s the first time they’ve had sex since their reunion. Peter has been touched since the hotel room, but not by anyone he cares about. Not by anyone he _loves_. It’s somewhat awkward as he and Juno relearn each other’s touch—each other’s pleasure. Awkward, and hasty, and perfect. 

Peter wishes they could go on like this forever. 

But he’s not built like he used to be. In what feels like no time at all he’s been reduced from a bonfire to a candle flame. Peter struggles to maintain his grip on the wick as Juno arches against him on the bed—struggles not to be swallowed up by the melted wax as a hand reaches down between his legs. There’s a rustle of blankets—a hitch of springs. The world has become a blur of bedsheets and warm, brown skin. Maybe they’re side by side now. Peter doesn’t know or care so long as Juno’s still there to hold him. A finger traces up Peter’s thigh. He shudders from his very core.

There’s a question; Peter gives his permission. Fingers close around his cock, made slick from the lube Peter didn't hear Juno open. Peter chokes on a whine. He means to reciprocate, but he’s so dizzy. His fingers flutter uselessly between their bodies on the bed; finally they wind around the sheets and _pull_. He lets the hot texture of Juno’s grip coax him out of his mind. Lets his forehead rest on Juno’s shoulder. Lets his body roil somewhere between ecstasy and exhaustion. At some point Juno’s other hand snakes around Peter’s back. He’s barely a firefly caught between Juno’s cupped palms now. It won’t be long before he winks out completely.

Of course Juno notices. Peter can’t help but keen as Juno’s hand leaves his cock. He’s so _close_ …

“Nureyev,” Juno says. He sounds hoarse and sleep-ruffled. 

Peter turns his face against Juno’s neck. “‘M fine,” he promises. His chest heaves, and even the darkness swims. “Please. Please, Juno, I can’t…” 

“Are you sure?”

“ _Yes,_ ” Peter pleads. He needs to be able to do this. Needs to be able to _have_ this. “I’m only tired, I— _please_ —”

And the fingers return to his cock. 

A strange noise hitches out of Peter’s mouth, torn from the root of his chest. His fingers ache where he unlatches them from the sheets. He locates Juno’s hip and manages to say, “Let me—”

“Oh fuck—yes—” 

Peter can _do this_. He claws his way back up the candle wick and folds his hand around Juno’s cock. He pumps him, and Juno pumps Peter, and the pressure builds and builds within Peter’s abdomen until he sees more stars than black spots. He presses a messy kiss to Juno’s shoulder, then leaves his lips there and _gasps_. He smells sex and sweat and Juno. The words coach Peter on even as his body fails him: _fuck, oh god Peter, that’s perfect, you’re perfect, please—_

There’s a cry. Cum spills over Peter’s hand. He hears his name, over and over. 

Peter follows Juno over the edge. He’s not sure what kind of sound he makes; he’s too far gone. He only knows his own pleasure and _Juno_ —the soft tether of his hands; the rumble of his voice, made tangible by the vibrations of his throat against Peter’s mouth. His orgasm passes over him like a great white wave. It snuffs out the last few embers of Peter’s strength. He feels his hand slip from Juno’s cock as he collapses against the bedsheets.

He’s gone too far. Pushed his body too hard. The dark hand of sleep closes around Peter’s mind and tugs. But he holds out, anchored by the rapid thrum of his heartbeat; the hug of cotton sheets; the chill of the room, felt more keenly now where the sweat dries on his skin. There are fingers on Peter’s chest. They skim down his ribs, all the way to his hip. They slow, then trace back up, over and over. Up and down. Up and down…

“Peter,” Juno murmurs. He aligns his fingers so they each fit a groove between Peter’s ribs.

Peter closes his eyes. He lets out a long, shaky breath. Juno’s fingers fall with his ribcage. 

He waits for Juno to ask. 

He doesn’t. Just kisses the line of his collarbone, like a reminder.

Like no matter what happens, Peter will get to keep this.

Juno lets the kiss linger. Then he presses another to Peter’s chin. A third tickles the column of his throat. Something like a giggle leaves Peter’s mouth. It comes out more ragged than he’d like. Juno picks up on the heartache behind the sound. He nudges closer. An arm wraps around Peter’s back. 

The sheets crinkle as Juno holds Peter close. He keeps one hand outside the hug—the one Peter came onto, he supposes. It’s gross and considerate and Peter snorts even as a tear slides down his cheek.

 _I love you_ , his mind chants over and over, to the beat of his heart. _I love you. I love you._

“I’m gonna’ go get us something to clean up,” Juno says, close enough that his breath skims over Peter’s shoulder. He plants one last kiss there. “Then we can talk. Okay?”

Peter doesn’t reply. He’s asleep before Juno can move.


	6. Chapter 6

Peter knew he couldn’t eat the rest of his dinner. But he’d stood up to clean his plate and Juno had looked so _frustrated_ , and Peter hadn’t meant to upset him. He hadn’t meant to be a nuisance. And really, he _loves_ Juno’s food. 

Or, Peter _did_ love Juno’s food. Back when he hadn’t needed pills to even play pretend at an appetite. Now his body rebels at any form of sustenance. It roils against Peter’s dinner, bile caught somewhere between his mouth and his gut where he hovers over the toilet bowl. The nausea swells, and Peter gags. The floodgates open; his whole stomach seems to want to claw up his throat. Another round of vomit hits the toilet water. The assault seems to go on and on.

There’s a hurt sound from Peter’s left. Peter barely registers footsteps, then a hand atop his back. His world has narrowed down to the burn of his throat and the sticky film around his lips. At last he coughs up more spit than vomit. Peter’s back heaves under Juno’s palm, up and down as he chokes down oxygen. With a shaky hand he yanks the flusher. The sound of suctioned water fills his ears.

A wad of toilet paper appears on Peter’s periphery. He accepts the paper with some difficulty and wipes his mouth. 

“Think you’re done?” Juno murmurs.

The words usher Peter back to the real world, and shame hits him like a blow to the skull. He’s totally exposed. The masks are off—all of them. There’s no guise of elegance to hide the shriveled, pathetic creature at Peter’s core. He needs time to regather the scraps of his dignity; to rebuild his walls strong enough to pass as someone remotely lovable. He needs to be _alone_.

“Get out,” he says.

“Nureyev—”

The words come out as a snarl: “Get out!” 

Peter feels Juno recoil—fast as a whip, almost like he expects to be struck. 

The moment snags. Peter swears his heart stops. Something between guilt and horror wraps a fist around his ribs and squeezes, hard enough that tears prick at his eyes. He’s _never_ supposed to make Juno flinch like that. He’s supposed to be a safe harbor—someone suave and clever for Juno to lean on as he works to get better. Not this wretched stain on the floor of the Carte Blanche’s bathroom. Not a burden. Not some wild animal to be _scared_ of…

Peter shudders. He kneels on the floor of the bathroom, mouth still sour with vomit, and waits for Juno to stand—for the click of his shoes as he walks out the door.

But Juno doesn’t move. 

“You really want to be alone right now?” he asks.

 _Yes_ , Peter needs to say. He feels his skin sting where he presses his palms to the floor. _Yes. Go away. Leave me alone._

The first tear catches on Peter’s nose. “I’m sorry. I’m so—I’m so sorry…” 

“Oh, Peter,” Juno murmurs. There’s a scratch of fabric as he scoots closer on the floor, and then fingers curl around Peter’s shoulder. “Oh, honey. Come here.”

The pet name undoes him. Peter sobs. Juno’s arms loop around his back, and Peter fists his fingers between his and Juno’s chests. He coughs around another cry; Juno’s hands hitch with Peter’s shoulder blades. He shushes him.

“It’s okay. It’s okay…”

Peter folds downward; closer and closer until the top of his head can fit under Juno’s chin. Juno sits higher on his bent legs to make room. He’s a short lady, but something about the pressure of his arms and the swath of his trench coat make Peter feel surrounded—shielded from the world as he falls apart. No one can see him. No one can hear him as he says,

“I don’t know what to do. I don’t want to…there’s…” Fingers come up to comb through Peter’s hair, and he’s wracked by a full-body shudder. “I’m _sick_ and I don’t know what to do because I don’t want to turn you into my caretaker. But there’s no way for me to live on and…and _not_ become a burden to you, and I…” He sniffs. “I love you _so much_ , Juno. I don’t want to lose you to this.” 

“You won’t,” Juno swears. “A whole army of Kanagawas couldn’t drag me away.”

“I don’t…” Peter uncurls one hand enough to press the fingers to the fabric over Juno’s heart. “I don’t mean…not like that. I mean I’ll become a new _duty_ for you to fulfill, after you’ve finally started to live for yourself. I’ll get worse, and…and there will be _so many_ more nights like this one, with me hunched over a toilet seat, or unable to eat or get out of bed. And you’ll still hold me like this because you’re _you_. But you’ll come to resent me for my weakness. For how…” he pauses to try and scrub the tears from his face. It’s a futile effort. “For how _miserable_ I make you. For how I can’t be there for you like you are for me; how you’re stuck with me until I—”

 _“Nureyev.”_ There’s a strained note to Juno’s tone, like maybe he’s about to cry. His grip goes tighter around Peter’s back. “Peter. You listen to me, okay? I will _never_. Think of you that way. Maybe I’ll—I mean, yeah, of course I’m going to get sad and frustrated sometimes, because I love you and the fact that you have to go through this _kills_ me. It’s so stupidly fucking unfair.” As though to steady himself, Juno presses a kiss to Peter’s mussed hair. “But the fact that you’re sick like this doesn’t suddenly change all the things I love about you. It doesn’t mean I won’t want to…lose to you at chess anymore, or stargaze with you on the observation deck, or lie with you at night and argue about—fuck, what was the last one?”

Peter chuckles through the tears. “I seem to recall you demanding we never bring that up again, dearest.”

Juno groans, and Peter knows he’s remembered. “Oh shit. Oh _god._ ”

“Don’t strain yourself, now.”

“I was about to drift off. _Right_ on the brink of sleep. And then you ask me,”—here Juno’s voice dips to a smooth baritone— _“Juno, what language do horses think in?”_

Peter tugs at his shirt. “In what world do I sound like that?”

“This one! All the time!”

Peter scoffs. “Honestly, Juno—you can keep the fraud and robbery charges. I should sue you for slander.”

It’s a rare gift, Juno’s laughter. Peter tucks the sound deep within his chest, like a portrait within a locket—something precious he can draw upon later for strength.

Juno’s hands slip around Peter’s body. He draws back from their embrace—only enough to cup his face. He treats Peter to a wobbly smile. There’s wetness on his left cheek.

“Peter,” he repeats—so softly, as though to share a secret. “You know me. I’m not delusional. I’ve lived through enough shit to know this won’t be easy.” He tucks a few stray hairs back behind Peter’s ears. “But we’ve got a support system here. Rita; Jet; Buddy…hell, even Vespa. They’re all gonna’ help us get through this. Yeah?”

Peter lets out a slow, shaky breath. Juno’s fingers are a barely-there brush against his temples. They move with his head as he nods.

Juno goes on: “You’re not gonna’ be alone. _We’re_ not gonna’ be alone. And you will never. Ever. Be a burden to me.”

“You can’t promise that,” Peter whispers. 

Juno snorts. He kisses Peter's cheek.

“Just try and stop me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The "In what world do I sound like that?" bit was inspired by a scene from [Libert_Egalite_Broadway's](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liberte_Egalite_Broadway/pseuds/Liberte_Egalite_Broadway) [A Second Chance (To Make Amends)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17707160/chapters/41845247)
> 
> Come chat with me on Tumblr! I'm at [Jitterbug-juno](https://jitterbug-juno.tumblr.com/).


	7. Chapter 7

Peter doesn’t remember passing out. 

It’s the day before their next heist. He’s on a date with Juno at a botanical garden a few blocks from the factory they’re set to rob. He turns to Juno to make some remark about one of the other guests, and then the world starts to bleach out on his periphery.

He wakes some time later to a lap under his head. 

There’s leather at Peter’s back and the soft cushion of Juno’s coat under his neck. It’s been bunched up to make a pillow. Peter hears the hum of a car engine and the muted swish of wind past closed windows. He opens his eyes. Juno is hunched over him, blurred out for Peter’s lack of glasses. Peter can still make out the look of relief on his face.

Fingers find Peter’s hand and squeeze. Peter grumbles around a confused noise and squeezes back. 

“You fainted,” Juno tells him, before he can ask. “How do you feel?”

Peter doesn’t know how to answer that. He’s become so familiar with his discomfort over the past few months that he’s not sure what counts as _notable_ anymore. There’s no way to discern whether the weak, achy way he feels right now differs from the weak, achy way he felt last night.

Juno narrows down his criteria: “Any nausea? Pain or tightness in your chest?”

“No,” Peter says. He’s vaguely aware of Jet at the wheel of the Ruby 7, and how fast the scenery zips by outside. A seatbelt clip digs into his left side; his legs are bent at an awkward angle to afford him the space to lay down. He doesn’t move. “Just…tired.”

Juno skims his thumb over Peter’s knuckles. “I’m gonna’ call Vespa again. You can go back to sleep. We’ll wake you up when we get to the ‘Blanche.”

Peter hums out an affirmative. Warm air blows from a slotted vent on the dashboard. Sunlight streams through the windows, broken every few seconds by a passing pole or storefront. The coat under Peter’s head smells like Juno. 

Peter feels his grip go lax on Juno’s hand as he drifts off.

  
  


This is what Peter’s life has become: a test to see how long he can push his body before he hits the next wall. The process has accelerated over the past few weeks, so that now barely a day goes by without a new checkmark on the list of things Peter can’t do anymore. He can’t leave the ship alone; force down more than one small snack at a time; remember to take his meds without an alarm on his comms; sleep for less than ten hours; and as of today, go on short walks with Juno around botanical gardens.

It’s a loss of control, Peter decides. That’s all sickness is: The growing inability to exercise control over one’s life. It is the breakdown of otherwise mundane routines; the erasure of the energy or willpower necessary to pursue a favorite activity; the slow death of _options_. What _can_ Peter do anymore? The area of life within his reach narrows a little more every day, until it barely extends beyond his bedside. 

It’s such an outlandish thing to Peter—this powerlessness. His work as a thief has always hinged on his ability to control his own body. The length of his stride; the pitch of his voice; the state of his posture; every nervous fiddle or shoe-tap Peter orchestrated with perfect authority to serve his latest disguise. But the strings have broken down somewhere between his brain and his body. It’s hard enough to control Peter Nureyev these days, let alone his mask of the week. Peter is no longer his own puppet master. 

Tonight he doesn’t even bother to put up a fight. He lies sprawled on his bed and waits to fall back asleep. Peter had held onto hope that he’d be allowed to go on tomorrow’s heist—he’d had his pad at the ready for a night of research—but after today’s fiasco he’s been replaced on the roster. Sure, he can play backseat driver on the Carte Blanche with Rita, but there won’t be any boots on the ground. 

So—sleep. Juno will surely come to visit once he’s done with his own research, and Vespa’s due to drop by for a checkup. But they can wake him. Peter curls his comforter a bit tighter over his shoulders and waits for the fatigue to pull him under.

He’s almost drifted off when a fist bangs against his door. 

“Mista Ransom! Are you asleep?”

If Peter had been before, he certainly isn’t now. He shuffles his pillow around enough to see the door and mumbles, “Is something the matter, Rita?”

The door swishes open. Rita stands at the entrance with one hand planted on her hip, the other squeezed around a long rectangular box.

“Look what I got!” she declares. 

Peter knows he’s meant to read the label on the front of the box, but Rita is across the room from him and the lights are off. He fumbles around for his glasses on the bedside table. They’re gone. He’s almost too drained to curse his poor memory. 

Rita seems to grasp Peter's dilemma. She flips on the lights as Peter checks the floor beside his bed, then pats down the blankets around his pillow. At last he finds his glasses tucked between two mounds of down comforter. 

He sighs, unfolds the temples, and puts them on. Then he turns back to Rita. 

“Show me again?”

Rita rushes up to the bed. She plonks the box onto the blankets—and now Peter can make sense of the cover. There’s a red backdrop and a crescent moon. A wargoat stares up at Peter with uncanny yellow eyes. 

“Rangian Street Poker,” Peter acknowledges. “A starter’s pack. Where did you get this?”

“Miss Vespa and me took a trip down to the shops!” 

Now that’s a funny thought. Peter and Vespa have grown closer since their hallway confrontation—they share an understanding unique to the dying—and he feels confidant that Vespa would not enjoy window-shopping. Between his curiosity and the remains of his self-preservation, Peter can’t decide whether he wishes he’d been on this trip. 

“You haven’t opened the package yet,” Peter observes. He pinches a bunched edge of the plastic wrap. “Were you hoping I could…verify the pack’s authenticity, before we left the planet?”

Rita flaps a hand at him. “Oh no, Mista Ransom. I was thinkin’ you could teach me how to play!”

Something like disappointment drags down Peter’s gut. “Juno told you about our little stint at the casino, then.”

“The who-now at the what?” 

Now they’re both confused. Peter leans forward where he’s sidled up against his pillows. “Rita. How did you know to ask me about Rangian Street Poker?”

Rita shrugs. “Well I mean I’d always wanted to play ever since the sequel to _Poker Tornado_ came out so of course I grabbed the first box I saw, and I asked whether Mista Steel knew how to play but he did that funny groan-y thing he does with his throat—”

Peter grins despite his bemusement. “What funny groan-y thing?”

“Oh you know, the ‘ughhhhhhhhhhh,’” Rita recounts, with what Peter would call remarkable accuracy. “But ANYWAY he said somethin’ about how the last time he tried understandin’ Rangian Street Poker he gave himself internal bleeding, so I went to Miss Buddy but she and everybody else had a bunch of research to do and then lil’ ol’ RITA had an EPIPHANY because MISTA RANSOM wouldn’t be busy because he’d be on camera duty tomorrow! And with his super secret master thief backstory he’d be bound to know all sorts of things about poker, because what kind of master thief ain’t ever robbed a casino, huh?”

“A smart one, actually,” Peter says. “Casinos are notoriously difficult to rob, seeing as the machines are always arranged at the center of the main room. It would be much more advantageous to rob the wealthy patrons than the casino itself—”

“—And anybody’s who’s a thief who’s robbed a casino would GOT to know how to play the CARDS. Part of the ruse and all that. So I HAD to come and ask.”

“Miss Rita,” Peter says. “I’m sorry to have gotten your hopes up, but I’m afraid I can’t teach you Rangian Street Poker.”

Rita slumps so she’s seated on the edge of Peter’s bed. She plants her palms on the covers for leverage. “Awwwwwww. Why not?”

As soon as a day ago Peter knows he would have brushed her off with some vague excuse. But at this point he’s so worn down—so far removed from his old masks that he finds he doesn’t care enough to lie. There’s no more dignity left to preserve. “I wouldn’t be able to flip the cards.”

Rita raises her eyebrows. “Oh! You mean like you’re too tired?”

“No.” Peter swears he can feel the old burns start to ache. “I mean that it would bring back unpleasant memories.”

“Ohhhhhhhhhh,” Rita says, like that tells her the whole story. “Well then we certainly don’t have to play! That or I could flip ‘em for ya’.”

That hadn’t occurred to Peter. He tilts his head. “You’d…do that for me?”

Rita looks affronted. “Of course!”

Peter makes a sound like an _oh_. He leans back onto his pillows and considers. He would still need to hold his hand of cards, but Rangian Street Poker card flips are a public affair—the sort that could feasibly be performed by anyone at the table. Or, anyone at the bed. Peter wouldn’t even have to hear the cards as they were set down or flipped: His bedcovers would swallow any sound they might have made against a solid surface. 

It could work, Peter muses. For the first time in over a year, he could play a game of cards. Maybe—just this once—he has a chance to _add_ something to the list of things he can do.

“Well,” Peter says at last. “Even a starter pack like this one comes with ten separate decks, and we all have a big day tomorrow. If we plan to get any sleep tonight, we ought to get started.”

And so a dying master thief settles down to teach a hacker-secretary the galaxy’s most complex game of cards. Peter knows Rita is a visual learner, so he frames the game as a sort of story. He leads her through the three disasters (the rockslide, the rapids, and the firestorm), their corresponding hubs (the concourse, the crowd and the crossroads), and the directions that might be taken at each (North, South, East or West). The card types come next, followed by the actual rules. Whether the players trade, shuffle, flip, discard or pair cards changes with each consecutive choice (rapids require a shuffle of the red and white decks, a crowd means the players have to discard their face cards, and so on). 

Peter had assumed Rita’s short attention span would pose a detriment to their session. It’s tricky enough to retain each new rule with only one set of cards to flip, after all. But Rita’s mind grabs onto the game like duct tape to pocket lint. It becomes apparent that Peter has overlooked two crucial details. One: Rita’s ability to hyperfocus. Two: At the end of the day, Rangian Street Poker is just a complex data tree with a laundry list of if-then-else expressions woven throughout.

In other words: coding. It’s no wonder that by the time Juno comes to visit, Rita has become an expert. 

“Mista Steel!” Rita announces as he opens the door. “Did you know Mista Ransom’s favorite stream is _Antique Road Wars?_ ”

“I mean…yes? I’m surprised he told you, though.” Juno studies the scene. Rita and Peter must look like two kids at a sleepover, cross-legged atop Peter’s bed with a mess of cards scattered between them. 

“Oh,” Juno says. His eye narrows. “So he was _coerced._ ” 

“Only you could make a game of cards sound like a case of blackmail, dear.”

“Uh, yeah. Sure. A nice, low-key game of cards where when you lie, you get shot.” Despite his distaste for the game, Juno pulls a chair over from Peter’s desk. “Not seeing any torn up cards…who’s winning?”

“Well, since we’ve only got the one box of cards you’ve gotta’ pretend those are all ripped up.” Rita points to the box cover at one end of the bed, now flipped upside down and stuffed with cards. “And Mista Ransom’s got most of the wins, but the Rita locomotive’s all revved up and GAININ’ SPEED like one of those chickens from _Race Car Barn: The Barn That Also Functions As A Race Car_.”

“Sounds like I should’ve brought popcorn, huh?” 

“Uh uh—no way are you gonna’ sit on the sidelines and snack, Mista Steel! You gotta’ _play!_ ”

There’s a scowl on Juno’s face, but Peter knows a mask when he sees one. It’s an old survival tactic—a play at aloofness to shield Juno from further heartache—and one that his brain still switches on from time to time regardless of context. “Rita. I appreciate the vote of confidence, but you could teach a rock to tango faster than I could learn how to play Rangian Street Poker.”

“Come ONNNN, boss,” Rita pleads, her fingers laced where she holds them up to her chin. “Just _try_!”

“Yeah, well.” He gives that trademark groan. He’s no match for Rita’s puppy dog eyes. “Okay. Okay, fine. Half an hour.”

“An hour!” 

“Forty minutes.”

“Fifty!” 

“ _Forty-five_. A minute over that and you’ll have to pay me time and a half.” Juno turns to Peter—and Peter doesn’t need Juno to spell out his truth. He can read Juno’s mirth from the lilt to his tone—the fingers that reach for Peter’s on the bedcovers. They hold hands as Juno says, 

“Walk me through?”

It goes about as well as Peter might've expected. Juno isn’t like Rita, who will accept and exploit the flow of random data points. He mind deals in patterns and logic. As a detective he is constantly connecting dots—studying the order of the world so as to recognize when something is out of place.

 _Everything_ is out of place in Rangian Street Poker. It is a game built upon sheer chaos. The cards that connect to one another are arbitrary. Peter has no doubt Juno _could_ learn how to play, given the time and space to memorize each card—build up a solid basis of knowledge on which to form a deduction. But that would take longer than forty-five minutes. 

Juno has reached the same conclusion long before the twenty minute mark, but he’s not the type of lady to go back on his word. Sure, he huffs and puffs and calls the game all sorts of names, but he does his best to follow Peter’s directions.

Peter is more than happy to reiterate his lesson. It’s a bone-deep relief, to be a voice of authority again. To be _competent._ Mag taught Peter Rangian Street Poker over twenty years ago. It’s not something new or cursory, like the layout of a mansion or the location of Peter’s glasses. This game followed Peter through his most formative years. He’s retained almost all knowledge of the rules, give or take a few rare plays. 

Vespa comes to check on Peter around the time Juno relocates to the bed. She opens the door, takes one look at the three of them where they’re gathered on the bed and says, “Fuck.”

Rita gestures to the card-littered covers. “Miss Vespa! You should come play with us!”

Juno looks at Rita like she’s just lit a cigarette over a vat of petrol. Vespa only scratches her wrist. She fiddles with the cuff of her shirt sleeve. 

Then she starts toward the bed. 

“It’s your funeral.”

“What, really?” Juno asks, taken aback. “Just like that?”

Vespa shrugs. She takes Juno's vacant chair. “You want me to leave, Steel?”

“Um—no, I mean. Just didn’t peg you for the ‘board game night’ type.”

“So long as I get to wipe the floor with someone, I’m happy.” Vespa rarely _looks_ happy, and she doesn’t now—but there’s a quirk to her lips that wasn’t there before. “Now go on and hand me a deck before I change my mind.”

The room only gets more crowded after that. When Vespa doesn’t come to bed, Buddy tracks her to Peter’s room. She claims to join the game solely to force Vespa to tell her where she hid her slippers. Jet, made curious by all the noise, follows soon after. Chairs are carried over from adjacent rooms; snacks are brought up from the kitchen; legs brush Peter’s where Juno and Rita huddle close to make more room for the cards. In what feels like no time at all the entire crew has assembled around Peter’s bed. Questions fly like arrows: _What was your most awkward date? Your messiest heist? Your biggest guilty pleasure? What do you own that you wouldn’t want anyone to know about?_ All but the person with the winning hand have to answer.

After a while the crew takes pity on Juno; they allow him to withdraw from the game before he has an aneurism. Rather than leave, Juno anoints himself Peter’s official card-flipper. No one asks or comments upon the fact. It’s simply accepted as a part of Peter’s process. 

Juno smiles more freely as the game goes on. That cynical barrier falls away. Sometimes Peter will look up and catch such a look of adoration on his face that he swears his heart stops. 

Peter knows that look. He feels the same way. Surrounded by the crew like this, their love is a tangible presence. It wraps around Peter’s shoulders like a warm embrace. Juno’s knee brushes against his own, and he hears the laughter of his shipmates—his family. 

He’s at home. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like there's another fic out there where Rita asks Peter to teach her how to play Rangian Street Poker...let me know if any of y'all remember which one it is so I can link it here!


	8. Chapter 8

Peter’s cabin fever will sometimes drive him to opposite ends of the ship. He manages to putter around the halls for a while on what could be called a so-so pain day. He takes a break at the kitchen table, then uses his second wind to whip up a cup of tea. From there he migrates to the lounge. The couch creaks where he lies down, cup of tea propped on the coffee table and book tucked under his arm (one of the old fashioned paper ones, loaned to him by Jet). 

It’s quiet. It’s nice. Peter’s half-way through the second chapter when Juno enters the room. 

He doesn’t say anything. Just crosses to the couch and _fwumps_ down onto the opposite side. It’s a long enough couch so that when Juno curls up against the arm, his socked feet only brush Peter’s. 

Peter wiggles his toes. 

“Bad brain day?” he murmurs. 

Juno presses his face against the cushions. He nods. 

Sometimes Juno doesn’t like to be touched when he’s like this, so Peter keeps his fingers latched around his book. He says, “What can I do to help?”

Peter sees Juno’s chest fall with a slow, slow exhale. He draws his knees closer to his torso. 

His throat clicks as he swallows.

“Just…sitting with you like this is nice.”

“All right.” Peter wishes he could do more, but he knows this kind of sadness. Knows that sometimes all you can do is sit, and know that you’re alive, and know that you are beside someone who’s also alive, and they have chosen to sit with you. The simple things become the biggest anchors.

So Peter goes back to his book. He sometimes rereads the same sentence twice, his concentration on Juno where he stays curled up and tense as a fist at the edge of the couch.

After what feels like a long time, Juno says, “Hey Nureyev?”

Peter adjusts his glasses. “Hmm?”

“What’re you reading about?”

“Oh.” Peter turns the book so the cover is facing Juno—somewhat unhelpfully, since Juno still has his face buried in the cushions. “The Eiffel Tower heist of 2135.”

Peter sees the corner of Juno’s mouth twitch up. “Is it…good?”

“The heist, or the book?”

“Both, I guess.”

“I’m afraid I haven’t gotten far enough along to tell, though the heist does seem rather sloppy.” Peter makes the suggestion on a whim, like a slip of the tongue: “Would you like me to read to you?”

Juno doesn’t snort, or wave him off—doesn’t move. For a while Peter suspects he won’t even answer. Then Peter hears a small, 

“Sure. If…that’s something you’d be up for.” 

Peter’s heart aches. He takes a sip of tea, and uses the short pause to collect himself. Then he says, “Of course, dear. Just tell me when to stop.”

Peter flips back to the start of the chapter and begins to read aloud.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shoutout to Pippa the Exploding Kat from the Discord for coming up with the Eiffel Tower Heist of 2135!


	9. Chapter 9

Peter Nureyev is very good at disappearing.

Every day he feels a little more distant from reality. Every day there’s something more he forgets; another memory shed by his mind. Every week, another few pounds shed from his body. He feels like a rock at the middle of a river, slowly whittled down by the current. He will continue to dwindle until at last he vanishes entirely. No distractions necessary. Just the natural progression of time, soft and deadly. 

Five days before their last heist, Peter can’t seem to wake up enough to get out of bed. He’s slept for fourteen hours already, but his body doesn’t care. It’s always hungry for more. He moves to sit up, but dizziness drags him back down. His eyelids droop. The world fuzzes in and out of focus as his conscious mind grapples for a foothold.

Knuckles brush over Peter’s cheek, and a voice says,

“It’s okay, hon. I’m gonna’ go get Vespa. Just hang tight.”

Peter can’t be sure whether he nods. He feels the weight of the covers on his shoulders, and he lets the waves coax him under.

Peter returns to some semblance of awareness with a cuff on his wrist and cool metal on his temple. 

Vespa sits at Peter’s bedside, brow furrowed as she skims a device across Peter’s forehead. It beeps, and the metal disappears. Vespa plucks Peter’s right hand off the bed and frowns at the color of his skin. She does the same for his left hand.

“A moment alone?” Vespa asks. Juno must still be in the room. There’s a murmur, and then the sound of footsteps. The door closes.

Vespa waits a couple seconds. Then she says,

“This doesn’t look good, Pete.”

And a wire must’ve gotten crossed somewhere, because that’s what Buddy calls him, not Vespa. Vespa passes Peter the mug from the bedside table. Peter can hold the mug long enough to take the pills she gives him, at least.

“I need to get you on an IV and a monitor,” Vespa says. “Your blood pressure’s too low. Your pulse is down. That, along with the weight loss and the discoloration...”

“How long do I have?”

Vespa frowns. “Hard to say. Maybe two weeks, from what I saw when I worked at Daeus General. Probably less.”

Peter doesn’t even react. He feels numb. 

Vespa doesn’t give him too long to sit with the news: “Luckily for you, we’re five days out from the Cure Mother.”

She says the words with confidence. Tiny threads of hope peak out from beneath Peter’s numb curtain. Vespa doesn’t bullshit. If she says they’ll get the Cure Mother, she plans to get the Cure Mother.

Peter can hang on for another five days.

“Want me to go get Juno?” Vespa says. “It’s up to you how much we tell him.”

Peter runs a hand over his face. He hates that he has to do this. Hates that he has to put this on the man he loves. But he knows Juno would want to know the truth.

“It’s all right. He’ll have assumed the worst anyway.”


	10. Chapter 10

They stay with him. 

Juno; Rita; Buddy; Vespa; Jet. The whole crew cycles through Peter’s room. Sometimes they gather as a group. He’s never alone, even when he’s asleep. 

A needle lives under the skin of Peter’s arm now, fixed to a bag over his bed. A plastic clip hugs his finger; Peter's wrist sweats under a cuff. A monitor maps out his vital signs, the repetitive peaks and valleys forming a little neon landscape for Vespa to scowl at.

Peter does his best to be cordial, but some days his anger gets the better of him. He snaps at his friends more than once. They react with kindness each time. Peter wishes they wouldn't. He's livid at the unfairness of his life, trapped under his skin and desperate for release. If he can’t fight this disease, he needs to fight _something_.

On other days, Peter hardly finds the will to speak, let alone fight. He hollows out his mind until he’s only a shell, and floats somewhere far above his body. His friends talk at his empty vessel, and he lets them. Sometimes Rita will put on a stream. 

That tiny glimmer of hope fights for life amidst a sea of dread. 

Five days.

Four days.

Three days.

Two…


	11. Chapter 11

“Do you know when I decided to tell you my name?” Peter asks. 

It’s one of his silent days, and the twitch of Juno’s hand betrays his surprise. He’s pressed against Peter’s back, an arm looped over his chest. He lifts his forehead from the back of Peter’s neck. “Mmn? No…I guess I don’t. When?”

Peter holds the hand cupped over his heart. He has to arrange his grip to make room for the pulse oximeter on his finger. “It was when you said you’d never tried eating cologne.” 

Juno snickers. His breath skims over Peter’s skin, stirring the hairs on the back of his head. _“Really?”_

“Really. It only occurred to me later, as I was writing the note, that I’d been preparing to do so for several hours. And when I looked back to _when_ …”

“ _That_ was the moment.”

“When I knew you were him,” Peter confirms sleepily. He pets the side of Juno’s hand with his thumb. “The person I wanted to share my name with.”

His name. His history. His life. Peter knows Juno understands the layers to the word, because he goes stiff for a second. Then he presses a fierce kiss to the stretch of skin between Peter’s neck and shoulder. 

“Do you know when I knew I was gonna’ fall in love with you?” he asks.

Peter smiles. They’re both asking each other the same question. “When?”

“When Cass had a gun on me, and you looked at me like you believed I could do anything.”

Peter fights to keep his eyes open. “I still believe that, Juno. Always have.”

Juno presses closer along his back. A long breath spills out of him.

“Then believe me now,” he dares, suddenly stern. “Believe me when I say we’re gonna’ get the Cure Mother tomorrow. Believe that I can do that.” 

Juno’s fingers have started to shake between Peter’s. Peter brings his hand up to his lips. 

“I do,” he tells Juno. “I know you can.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally...the bit from the summary! THANK YOU to everyone who's left comments so far! TwT


	12. Chapter 12

The real world becomes a blur. Peter feels like he’s on the precipice of a vast ocean. Every time he falls asleep, he fears the tide will carry him away. That he won’t wake up.

Peter does his best to hold out, but his grip is a tenuous thing. A tiny whisper could shake him loose. 

He’s only half sure he’s awake when Vespa punches open his door. She’s all tousled up, parts of her disguise still tied around her waist, the tips of her hair singed. Ash flitters off her clothes as she races through the doorway. Jet follows, a big black case clasped between his hands. Then comes Buddy, followed by Juno and Rita. The whole parade crowds around Peter’s bedside. 

Juno’s the closest to Peter’s face. He smells like laser fire. His fingers brush up and down the line of Peter’s ulnar artery. _Hold on_ _,_ he thinks he hears. Vespa scrambles to replace Peter’s IV. _Hold on…_


	13. Chapter 13

It doesn’t click for a while, that they’ve succeeded. That Peter’s actually going to get better. He’s been sick for so long now that he doesn’t know how to navigate a world where he’s allowed to be _all right_. He follows his established routines and pretends not to expect much out of life. Refers to his body’s old boundaries. Like he doesn’t want to get his hopes up.

Then he wakes up on his own after only nine hours of sleep, and he’s overcome suddenly by the enormity of what’s occurred. What he’s been rescued from. It’s been so many years since Peter didn’t have to push down the fear. Since his body didn’t ache. Since he hadn’t had to worry about debts or pills or flare-ups. It’s like an anvil has been lifted off his chest—one he'd almost forgotten was there, for all the years he'd learned to live with its weight. Peter wakes that morning and he can see a _future_ ahead of him. It’s so much all at once that he has to lie there for a while and cry.

“I’m okay,” he tells Juno as they embrace. “I’m…oh my god, _I’m going to be okay._ ”

Over the next week the pain falls away strip by strip, like an unwound bandage around Peter's ribs. The tiny perimeter of life afforded to Peter by his sickness expands day by day, until he can travel all around the ship without a whiff of fatigue. He even runs down the hall to his room; his legs don’t wobble once. It’s such a thrill that Peter stops at his door, turns around, and runs all the way back. By the end of the week he can do a lap around the whole ship.

“It’s too perfect,” Peter muses. “Too..sudden, after all this time. I keep expecting to wake up.” 

“You’re telling me,” Vespa says. It’s a slow night on the Carte Blanche. There are no treatment plans to discuss anymore, but she and Peter have still ended up at the med bay. “Headaches are gone. Delirium up and fucked off last Monday. And I only needed one cup of coffee today.” She holds up a finger to stress the point. “One. Cup.” 

Peter whistles. “At this rate we’ll both be deadlifting 400’s by the end of the week.”

“Bet you a hundred creds I can do 500.”

“Vespa, I’m no doctor, but I fear you’ll slightly hamper the effects of the Cure Mother by crushing yourself under a barbell.”

“Sounds to me like you’re too chicken to take on the deadlift champion.” Vespa flexes a still-malnourished arm. Then she pauses. They’re seated side by side on a fold-out cot; Vespa plants her hands on the fabric behind her and leans back. “God damn, Pete. What the hell are we gonna’ do with ourselves?” 

Peter sighs through his nose. He lets his hands dangle over his knees. “There’ll be time to...unpack the trauma now, I suppose. I suspect there’s a lot I’ve pushed down.” He shrugs. “And of course there are all the plans for the future I’ve had to cut short...”

“Mm-hmm.” Vespa sidles off her side of the cot. “Well, I say we start small. Maybe a trip outside.”

Peter grins. “I could do for some fresh air, yes.”

Vespa starts for the door, and Peter follows on steady feet.


	14. Chapter 14

Peter’s appetite doesn’t return gradually. Rather, he wakes at 4:30 a.m. with such a feral hankering for pancakes that he nearly rips off a cabinet door in his haste to grab the box mix.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Juno says as he enters the kitchen. He shields his eye from the glare of the lights; he hasn’t bothered with his eyepatch, and his bathrobe is inside out. “Wh…Peter?”

The room smells like charred batter. Peter gestures to the pan on the stove. “I’m hungry,” he says, delighted at the novelty of it. 

Juno’s eye widens. He lets out a little disbelieving laugh, tiredness forgotten. “You’re. You’re what?”

“I’m hungry!” Peter declares. 

“You’re hungry!”

_“Yes!”_

Juno surges forward. Peter drops his spatula to meet him halfway, and then those warm arms are wrapped snugly around his middle. Juno may not be tall, but he’s got real strength to him. He yanks Peter around, and the two spin a little in front of the stove. Peter laughs as Juno shouts, “You’re HUNGRY!”

“All right, all right—you’re going to wake the whole ship!”

“Good!” Juno pulls back enough to beam up at him. “They’ll be as happy as I am!”

“Maybe not at this hour.” Peter registers Juno’s sleep-mussed clothes. “Why are _you_ awake, Juno?”

“Eh. Guess I got used to you sleeping next to me. My body must’ve realized you weren’t there and woke me up.” 

Peter’s not sure whether to feel guilty or touched. He settles on a combination of the two. “Well, you can go back to bed now. I’ll meet you there once I’ve had some breakfast.”

Juno snorts. “Peter, look at the stove.”

“Wh—oh.”

Peter’s pancake is darker than soot and flat as a crepe. Another moment unattended and Peter suspects it would have gone up in flames.

“One: I’m not gonna’ let you blow up the ship.” Juno grabs the spatula and begins to scrape the charred pancake out of the pan. “Two: this is your first real meal in months, and I want to be here for it. So show me where you put the batter and let me help.”

Peter obliges, and the two set about making something less like a burned tire. Juno doesn’t take over for Peter, as he sometimes would before he lost his appetite. He tells Peter how much flour to add (Peter’s batter was too thin), and how to know when to flip the pancakes (when bubbles form on the top, and the sides start to turn up from the pan)—but he never grabs the spoon or the spatula. He seems to sense that Peter needs to do this for himself.

In the end, Peter emerges victorious with a thick tower of pancakes—some prettier than others. He and Juno split the stack between two plates, borrow a couple oranges and some of Rita’s blueberry syrup from the fridge, and plonk down at the kitchen table for a real, honest-to-god meal.

Peter eats with vigor, though he has to stop every few minutes to savor the moment. To remember that yes, he’s alive, and he doesn’t hurt. He woke up at an ungodly hour and he’s barely even tired. Juno’s here, and they’ve made pancakes together—and they have the rest of their lives ahead of them.

Juno catches Peter staring. He grins at him as he puts down his fork. 

“How do you feel?” he asks.

Peter feels brighter than a star. He folds his hand over Juno’s on the tabletop and says,

“Permanent.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kevin Vibert voice: "If you’ve enjoyed this tale, please consider supporting the [fanfic author] on [Webtoon, [where you can read her fantasy comic about a girl who gets trapped in the world's most cliche YA novel](https://www.webtoons.com/en/challenge/chosen/list?title_no=353388)]. Every [reader] helps. 
> 
> "We would like to give special thanks to all who [volunteered to review this fic as beta/sensitivity readers]: [Loonylu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/loonylu/pseuds/loonylu) and [Frogs-and-dragons](https://frogs-and-dragons.tumblr.com/). Thank you!
> 
> "You can also support [the fanfic author] by following [her] on Twitter ([@cushfuddled](https://twitter.com/Cushfuddled)), following [her] on Tumblr ([@jitterbug-juno](https://jitterbug-juno.tumblr.com/)), telling your friends about [this or other fics]...and especially by rating and reviewing [this fic on AO3]. Every rating, comment and kind word inspires [her] to keep creating..."
> 
> This fic's jukebox:  
> Take Me Apart - SYML  
> Firewood - Regina Spektor  
> What Sarah Said - Death Cab For Cutie


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